Freedom!

Or why it’s great to be 53 years of age.

No one's looking at me like I’m some sexual contender/predator, some threat to or promise of future fun. I’m so clearly NOT still “in the game.”  Loving this -- I tell you, I’m, for reals and everything, loving this.

Why is this so great, you ask.

Jen and I were sitting at a bar, enjoying a lovely post work prandial bev, when I spied an extraordinarily attractive young man. OK, he looked to be somewhere around 40 or so but, hey, that’s still loads younger than me. Right?

He had long brown hair, shot through with grey. He was trim with angular, evocative cheekbones.  He looked like a cross between Egon Schiele and a young Jeff Beck.

Yeah, I had a little lust rush going on (of course, that might have just been a hot flash).

I couldn’t take my eyes off him for long and suspected he’d noticed. After Jen and I paid our tab, I strolled over and put my hand on his shoulder and my lips to his ear (the joint was loud. no really. K?) and said ‘Dear, you’re an extremely attractive young man. Thank you.'

Yeah,  I did  -- for reals.

Jen told me that he smiled, very happily and pronounced that I’d made his day.

That makes two of us.